


Secrets and Confessions

by CricketScribbles



Category: Jurassic Park - All Media Types, Jurassic World Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Drama, Drunken Confessions, F/M, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 16:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15223076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CricketScribbles/pseuds/CricketScribbles
Summary: Before they ever dated, Claire was on Owen’s radar. When he gets drunk off of his ass, she is the one he relies on to take him home. And he says more than a few things she will never forget.





	Secrets and Confessions

When Claire got the call, she was wrapping up last minute paperwork for the day, her office quiet, the park emptied of visitors.

“Is this Claire Dearing?” an unfamiliar male voice said.

“Yes. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

“It’s Scott. I’m the bar tender at the Jungle Barrel. Owen said to call you.”

Claire’s eyebrows shot up. “He did?”

“Yeah. He’s…he’s in pretty bad shape. He can’t drive himself home tonight. Wouldn’t be good.”

Claire flicked her pen onto the desk. “You mean he’s drunk.”

“As a skunk.” 

She hissed a breath through her teeth with annoyance and leaned back in her chair.

“And why didn’t he contact any of his other buddies?” Claire said.

A pause settled over the phone.

“Scott?” Claire said. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah, it’s just…I’ve known Owen a while. He doesn’t let his guard down around people very often. So when I asked him if he had someone to drive him home, he mentioned your name. Not anybody else. Only you. I don’t know where his other buddies are but your name was at the top of his contacts list on his phone. Must be pretty important to him.”

Claire blinked, surprised at that.

“I’m on my way,” she said.

* * *

 

She found Owen at the bar, his chin propped in his hand, swaying in his seat. 

“Owen,” Claire said. “Time to go home.”

Owen straightened and turned. And something in his eyes shifted. Almost brightened. But as quickly as it appeared, it was shuttered away. 

Claire took him by the arm, pulling him off of the stool.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Owen’s feet thudded to the floor and he leaned too heavily on her shoulder. Claire was sure they would collapse right there in the middle of the bar, just folded up in a heap of tangled limbs, her crushed beneath him. He was so damn  _heavy_. 

But he managed to stay on his feet and shuffled out to her car.

“If you puke in my car,” she said, pointing at him. “You will pay to have it cleaned.”

He saluted. “Yes ma’am.”

Claire raised an eyebrow, studying him. Owen tipped his head back to look up at her and smiled, sloppy and lop-sided and far too charming for his own good, damn it. 

Satisfied that he seemed to be holding steady and he wasn’t about to be sick in her car, Claire closed the door. Not anywhere near forcefully but Owen flinched anyway at the noise.

Claire climbed into the driver’s seat and that’s when she heard Owen humming.

Then he actually started  _singing_.

Barely audible, low and off key under his breath. But the words were distinctive enough to leave no doubt what he was saying.

Claire froze, wide eyed, staring out the windshield. She didn’t dare look at him for fear that he would stop.

 _Settle down with me_  
And I’ll be your safety  
You’ll be my lady  
I was made to keep your body warm.

Claire stole a glance at Owen out of the corner of her eye. He had his head turned away from her, one hand tapping a sketchy beat on top of his thigh. Then the tune faded, the words fell away, and Claire thought that was the last of the song.

Instead, he was merely switching to different lyrics.

_I believe in miracles  
Where you from, you sexy thing?_

Claire rolled her eyes and put the car in reverse so suddenly that Owen’s head snapped forward and the lyrics came to an abrupt stop.

By the time Claire pulled up outside of Owen’s bungalow, his chin was tipped forward on his chest and he was snoring slightly. Claire shook his shoulder and his head wobbled.

“Owen,” Claire half shouted. “Owen, we’re here. Wake up.”

She received a louder snore in response. Claire sighed and climbed out of the car, yanked open his door. He nearly tumbled out. She wedged her body under his shoulder and patted his face. But when he still didn’t wake up, she practically slapped him.

Owen startled, blinking. Then he glanced down at her and draped an arm over her shoulder.

“It’s getting late,” he said, his words slurred and running together. “Should take you home.” Then he added softly, “Maybe…kiss you good night?” 

Posed as a question, a lilt of hope at the end, as if he wasn’t the confident ex-soldier who could win over any woman he wanted with a smile and a wink.

“You need some sleep first,” Claire replied. 

Owen stumbled out of the car, weaving on his feet. He put a hand on Claire’s hip to steady himself as they made their way up the steps. Claire tried the door handle but it wouldn’t budge.

“Key?” she said, holding out her hand.

Owen slowly patted his vest pockets. Claire, quickly growing impatient, brushed his hands aside and rummaged through his pockets. He raised his hands in the air.

“Shouldn’t we be…you know…inside?” he said. “Before you start doing that? I mean, not that…I’m not…complaining or anything.”

No keys. That left the pockets of his pants.

And she was not going there.

Claire gestured at his pants.

“Check your pockets please,” she said.

Owen pressed his eyes closed. He tipped forward on his toes and Claire was sure he was going down, right there on the porch steps. Her hand shot out, braced in the middle of his chest, hoping it was enough to keep him upright for a minute longer.

Claire gritted her teeth. Propriety be damned.

She plunged her hand into the left pocket of his jeans, trying to ignore the burn of his body heat through the denim. 

Nothing.

Owen’s knees buckled, sinking towards the floor. Claire flung his arm over her shoulder.

“No, no, no,” she said. “Don’t pass out on me yet.”

Owen’s forehead dropped to the top of Claire’s head, his nose buried in her hair.

“You always…smell so good,” he muttered under his breath. “Sweet. Like…jasmine.”

Claire shook her head. Drunk Owen was a very different man than the Owen she dealt with on a daily basis. She steeled herself and stuck her hand in his right pocket. Her fingers brushed metal at last and she snatched the keys out.

Struggling to balance Owen’s weight and get the keys in the lock, Claire finally managed to push the door open.

“All right, get inside,” she said.

But Owen’s boot caught on the threshold. Claire caught him, her arms around his middle. His mouth grazed her temple and the weight of him pressed against her, pinning her against the door jamb. Claire’s pulse picked up with her view of his throat, the collar of his shirt gaping open. All she needed to do was lean in and her lips could brush the curve of his collar bones, follow the line of his neck to his ear…

“Couch,” Owen mumbled. “Just…need the couch.”

Claire angled him towards the couch on the right, eager for a distraction from her wandering thoughts. Owen dropped on his back with a groan. She tucked his feet up on the cushion as best she could - it was a tight fit for a man of his size.

As Claire reached over him for the blanket on the back of the couch, Owen brushed his knuckles across her cheek.

Claire flinched in surprise. Her gaze darted down to find him looking up at her, his eyes hazy.

“Pretty,” he said. “Never…told you…that. Too chicken to do it.”

Claire’s hands fell away from the blanket, her head tilted to the side. Owen Grady was afraid of something? That was certainly new. 

The chances were slim that he would remember anything of this in the morning. But Claire would remember. And she planned to use it to her full advantage as soon as he was conscious.

Owen laughed, rough around the edges with exhaustion. He turned his head aside - an almost shy gesture if Claire didn’t know any better.

“Hell,” he rasped. “you’re goddamn perfect. Don’t know…don’t know what you see in me.”

Claire’s chest tightened to hear him talk like that. He always seemed so cocky and full of himself with his sarcastic quips and snappy comebacks. And she goaded him into it, too. She gave him a hard time just to watch him grind his teeth or smirk or…anything. As long as she had his attention. That’s all she wanted.

“Feels like I’m…” Owen muttered. “Like I don’t deserve….”

Claire leaned forward as he trailed off as if she could chase the drowning of his words and rescue them before they were lost. But they faded anyway as Owen’s eyes closed.

Claire slid her hand up his arm, over his shoulder and stopped above his heart.

“Owen?” she whispered. “What were you going to say?”

His eyes remained closed. Seconds ticked by one after the other and Claire didn’t move. 

Then Owen covered her hand with his palm. His thumb closed around her wrist, just above her pulse, smoothing back and forth.

Claire knelt on the floor beside the couch and stayed there, watching Owen sleep for as long as his hand held hers.

* * *

 

In the morning, Claire woke to the scent of coffee. She rubbed her eyes and blinked blearily in the direction of the kitchen, squinting in the too-bright sunlight streaming in from the window.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Owen said. He placed a cup of coffee on the counter and nudged it in her direction.

“There’s sugar if you want it,” he said. “Milk might be bad though. Haven’t checked.”

Claire passed her hands over her face, smoothed her hair down in an effort to make herself presentable. She rubbed at her aching neck with a wince.

Owen caught the gesture, half turned to the stove, poking at a pan of eggs. He abandoned the stove and stepped up behind her. Claire shifted to face him - such an obviously defensive maneuver that Owen held up his hand.

“Just trying to help,” he said.

After a moment, Claire relaxed, her shoulders easing lower. Owen twirled a finger.

“Turn around,” he said.

Grudgingly, Claire relented. He had trusted her last night to see the mess that he’d been. Now she trusted Owen in return to put him at her back, out of her line of sight where she couldn’t see what he was doing, couldn’t read his expressions.

Owen’s hand came up, curved over neck. She stiffened at his skin against hers, the sudden intimacy of it when she had kept him at a distance for so long.

Owen pressed his thumb in deep circles, massaging the sore muscles of her neck. Claire released a low breath and bowed her head.

“That feels really nice,” she whispered.

“If I’d known you were going to spend the night,” he said. “I could have pulled out an extra mattress or something. The floor is far from comfortable.”

Claire waved him off.

“I wasn’t planning on staying. But you were really out of it last night. Didn’t think it was a good idea to leave you alone. Although it seems you have everything under control now.”

Claire swept her hair up, granting Owen access to the rest of her neck as encouragement to go a little higher. His hand completely settled in the curve of her neck, comfortable with the permission she had freely given him.

She leaned into the counter, tension melting away. She could feel Owen shift closer, his breath sweeping along the exposed skin of her neck. 

A shiver rippled up her back and she inched to the side. Owen’s hand dropped. Claire bit the inside of her cheek to prevent any noise of disappointment from escaping at the loss of contact.

“You’re about to burn your eggs,” she said, putting her back to the counter, Owen at her front again.

“Shit,” Owen hissed, rushing to the stove, scrambling to get the pan onto the counter.

Claire picked up her coffee cup, wrapped her fingers around the heat of it, trying to forget how warm Owen’s hand had been against her skin.

“Sorry about the whole drunk thing,” Owen said over his shoulder. “Thanks for driving me home. I owe you one.”

“You’re welcome.”

A pause settled over the kitchen. This was about the time that Claire would wield the embarrassing information she had gathered last night and use it against him. The off key singing, the confessions, the fact that she was number one on his contacts list.

But Claire couldn’t bring herself to mention any of it. Last night felt dream-like, as if it wasn’t real, as if it hadn’t really happened. If she spoke about it, the illusion might shatter. And she wanted to keep it to herself, keep it whole for as long as she could.

“So,” Owen said slowly, scraping eggs out of the pan and onto a plate. “Did I…say anything last night?”

Claire flicked her gaze over the rim of her cup at him.

“Like what?” she said.

He shrugged, sliding a plate towards her.

“I was drunk,” he said. “Typically entails embarrassing things. Strange behavior. Karaoke. Dancing naked on tables.”

Claire snorted a laugh into her coffee. “Believe me, if that happened, I would have video evidence.”

“Does that mean the coast is clear?”

Claire held his gaze for a moment.

_You said I was pretty._

_You said you couldn’t understand what I see in you._

_You left something unfinished and I know you’ll never tell me now._

In the end, she simply said, “You snored. Very loudly.”

And the rest of it, she kept for herself. As Owen dug into his eggs, standing at the counter beside her, Claire’s hand slipped around to the small of his back. Her little finger wormed its way into the belt loop at his hip. If he asked her out now, after everything he’d said last night…well…she wouldn’t say no.

Owen glanced at her, eyebrows raised at the voluntary contact she had initiated all on her own. He reached out and brushed his thumb along her bottom lip, his knuckles grazing her chin for a brief moment.

“You had a little egg there,” he said.

“Oh,” Claire said with a knowing smile.

She hadn’t touched her eggs yet. But she would keep that a secret too.


End file.
